Night Rain
by Raven Ehtar
Summary: Caught on a dark street in the rain, two men share a desire to take down one who has hurt them, and to share a moment of passion. Thiefshipping. One-shot. MATURE fic.


_**A/N:**__ I have it in mind to hit all of the shippings that I like from __YGO__ with at least one fic each. So Thiefshipping (Marik/Yami Bakura) had to get one eventually, right?_

_**Betas:**__ N/A_

_**Music:**_ Nightrain _by Dark Sanctuary._

_**Warning:**__ Rated M! If you dislike or are sensitive about boy / boy romantic or sexual relationships, please turn back now. As always, any flames from slash / yaoi haters will be instantly deleted. Take the hate somewhere else please. Constructive criticism is welcomed and encouraged. :)_

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own __Yu-Gi-Oh!__, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story._

…

Night Rain

Raven Ehtar

…

The world was drowning. Rain fell in thunderous sheets, beating the pavement and scouring the streets, washing away everything not strong enough to stand against the rising tide. In the dark watery neon shone piteously, warring the night and falling walls of rain, but it was a losing battle.

The world was drowning and so was Marik Ishtar, though not in water in his case. What Marik Ishtar found himself succumbing to in the darkness and the rain was far more dangerous.

Bricks, harsh and unyielding, pressed against his shoulder blades, scraped the flesh at the small of his back where his shirt did not cover. The cold stone stole what heat the falling rain had left behind, but it was heat that was quickly and eagerly replaced, regenerated. Fingers, physically soft but rough in intention, traced upwards along Marik's belly, tugged at the back of his neck, pulling him forward as the rest of the second body was pushing him back, pinning him to the wall. The mouth that covered his own was likewise paradoxical – smooth to touch, rough to experience. It claimed Marik in ways that made him think there was a fine line to be crossed between this and simply being eaten whole. Teeth bit at his lips and at his tongue, an invading tongue sliding against his own, flicking the roof of his mouth. Marik did his best to just hold on, and did so with his hands, clasping at his assailant's shoulders, his head. He was drowning, but he didn't want to breathe.

When the body pressed up against his finally pulled away, it was a battle of darkness and deceptive light to truly see him. They were near to a drugstore, their feet having somehow steered them down a short alley to steal some privacy, and the harsh electric lights and neon, weighted down with water and reflecting off the sheen of rain that clung to their skins, made the man standing before Marik a creature of ink and shadows.

The body was young, so young, nearly his own age, but the eyes that stared out of that body and into his were old, ancient. Not entirely human. They bored into him with a desire and heat that was more animal than man. It was a need to consume, to devour and leave nothing behind, tinged with an all too human lust sparking within, a quirk of amusement that tugged at his lips.

Marik looked down to the gold hanging around the boy's neck that gleamed in the darkness, the rain giving it a shine that was practically a glow. The one who held him trapped in this alley, the one he spoke to, the one he kissed, the one whose desire sparked the hot, molten heat in the pit of his stomach, a memory of the desert, was not the _body_ encroaching on his own. It was the soul, bound to that gleaming ring of metal. The name of the body was Bakura, but the soul's name… that had long ago been lost, blown away by time. It was a ghost he desired – who desired him – a creature come from the past that had scented him and hunted him down.

He shivered, desire and fear sinking into his very marrow, and the shadows grinned at him knowingly.

Here was danger, deeper than anything he might have sought that had somehow found him out. He knew he was in over his head, far outmatched in power and in drive… and this force was focused on _him_, the danger all aimed at him, the desire for his skin, his blood, his _self_ so plain to see he could make it out even through the cloying shadows. It bordered on the obscene.

He should push it away, useless gesture though it may prove to be, and retreat while he still maintained a tenuous hold over his own mind and soul… but he could no more do that than he could forget his plans for revenge. _He_ craved as well, he craved this danger, this darkness, this heat and pain against his flesh.

He dug his fingers into the pale arms, his nails biting the soft flesh, demanding without words, and in so doing abandoning all hope that he would be able to escape.

Bakura had no need to wait for permission. It was his nature to take what he wanted all without explanation, but he did wait this time. It seemed to give him more pleasure to make it known, without a trace of doubt, that Marik _wanted_ him, that Marik gave as much as Bakura took.

He moved and Marik gasped at the delicious pain of teeth at his throat. He arched, pressing his shoulders against the bricks and his body into his tormentor, into the cruel mouth leaving marks down his neck. Bakura's fingers were clever, even in the chilly rain, and had his shirt open and Marik's chest exposed to his hot mouth. Marik's moan was swallowed up in the pattering of rain.

How had they come here? Marik couldn't quite recall. He remembered feeling an odd kind of attraction to this man – this _soul_, rather, from the moment he'd learned of him. He was an enemy of the Pharoah, after all, an ancient enemy of his enemy. He was legendary in a way of whispers, half mythical, believed by many to only be an analogy, a fanciful tale draped over plain history. Marik knew of him first from his studies as a Tomb Keeper, knew all of what very little remained of him, the King of Thieves. All of what little there was agreed, whether it thought him a real flesh and blood man or a series of events given fleshy coverings:

He was evil.

Half mythological thumbs dug into Marik's prominent hip bones, sure to leave bruises. Lips brushed over and then teeth clamped lightly onto nipples already hardened by the sensations of cold and desire. Marik groaned again, the crown of his head touching the bricks behind him as he arched, tangling his fingers into white, sopping hair.

Marik was not afraid, not of tales nor of rumors. If the Bakura of his stories were evil, then by the same standards so too was Marik, and he had no reason to fear. Besides which, the tales came from supporters of the Pharaoh. Loyal subjects all, and their views would be thus biased. Their words were as dead as those whom had mouthed them, dead and dry as beetle casing to be swept away by the wind.

_This_ was real, _this_ was true, this being before him was what pulsated with life and energy and power, and would be what he would believe.

It was difficult not to whimper, not to press his hips forward in plaintive need as the trail of bites and licks moved down his body, trailed by a secondary pathway of raking nail marks and fingerprint bruises. He ached to be touched, to be taken, even to be consumed as those dark eyes promised to do. He _wanted_ and in the darkness, faced with more darkness, it was difficult to remember not to demand too much.

But he needn't have worried, as however much he wanted, this man from an unknowable past would always want _more_. Lips fluttered over his abdomen, making his flesh tremble at the touch, nails leaving hot, burning tracks over the back of his hips. A tongue of fire lapped up the dribbling rain that ran down his body, edging down and further down, until fingers were insistently pulling at the waistband of his pants.

He mouthed Marik through his pants, teasing at him though he was already straining, fingers wrapping around his buttocks and kneading so deep that Marik felt the fire eat at the base of his spine.

When it became all too obvious that he would do no more than tease, the Tomb Keeper, with an animalistic growl, pushed him away and fumbled at the catches of his trousers himself. For a moment Bakura only smirked up at him, dark glee hidden in his eye, and Marik was tempted to take hold of his head and force the issue, to demand all with no compromise, but it was not necessary. Bakura came forward and the cold was replaced with hot and with wet, and Marik's knees very nearly gave away.

Eventually, lost in a world of pleasure, Marik hooked one leg over Bakura's shoulder and cried out his ecstasy to the falling skies, but none heard him. The rain created a cave around them where none would intrude, and they were free to drown in each other.

…

_**A/N2:**__ This is really toing the line for FF's guidelines on what counts as MA or not… but I think we're good. Right on the edge but not quite there. Hopefully. If the fic suddenly disappears you'll know why. _

_**Thanks for reading, everybody!**_


End file.
